


Wish Brightly, Dream Deeply

by PlethoraOfCreatures



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Poetry, Gen, I'm still proud of this, Poetry, i'm really proud of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 21:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlethoraOfCreatures/pseuds/PlethoraOfCreatures
Summary: Some poetry.





	1. Weapons

Things of great beauty, things of great pain.

Things that end lives, things that end reign.

Things that start fights, things that start war,

These are called weapons, and nothing more.


	2. I DON'T CARE. ANYMORE.

The words blare inside my head. 

I DON'T CARE.

But I did. 

Once.

No.

Now it's 

I DON'T CARE. ANYMORE.


	3. The Right Time (He and he)

They are-

Wait. 

I cannot tell this tale. 

Yet. 

So why don't you stick around. 

While I wait. 

For the right time. 


	4. "Monster"

What is a monster anyway?

Is it the thing we search for

Under our beds?

Or in our closets

At night?

Or is it a part of us?

An unfettered area that we lock away

From the light of the world?

Is it the part that rages and rages

Against all the injustices done to you?

A terrible fury

Born by the need to protect?

The part that wishes it could break through all the walls

Between you and the things you want?

The part that thinks,

If only I were better,

I'd be loved. 

The part that was flayed 

And opened

And lived and breathed the word

"Monster".


	5. Red

Red is the color of 

Life. 

Some people think that life is

Green, 

But 

Green 

Is the color of

Poison.

Red is the color of

Life, and of

Blood and

Warmth, and

Dust, dry against skin. 

Red is angry 

And warm

And alive. 

Red is the color

Of many things. 

Feelings.

Love and anger. 

Happiness.

And movement. 

A fight. 

A dance. 

A song. 

Red is not the color of

Wrong.

Hate. 

Sad. 

Words that hurt, or

Lies. 

Red is good. 


	6. Anger

No one is without it. 

It takes many forms. 

A sullen silence. 

A venom-filled sentence. 

A black eye.

A scream. 

You can hide it, though. 

Be calm. 

And so very, very, angry. 

And yet, not crack. 

Except in the eyes. 

The eyes don't lie. 

They can flash. 

Glitter.

Blaze. 

But the real anger

Is when they go black with

Utter. 

Fury. 


	7. Trust

Trust someone.

Not a stranger. 

They don't know you. 

Not a close friend. 

They'll try to understand for you. 

But you can trust someone

Red as blood,

Black as secrets, 

And pale as forgiveness. 

Find someone who is all three,

And you can trust them. 


	8. Losing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild swearing. You're big kids; you can handle it.

No sir, I'm more inclined

To bite your goddamned head

Off your shoulders. 

Is this some kind of game?

Some interesting trivia question?

At least to you,

It is. 

To me?

No. 

This is not a game.

This is serious. 

I can't lose. 

It's hard to go

Lower,

When you're already

At the bottom.

You can cheat. 

Go ahead. 

But you can't win.

How can you

When the only one

Who can lose

Is you?


	9. There is... a Liar

There is one. 

A man. 

He lies for anyone easily. 

But usually at a price. 

Anyone he trusts,

He protects in his own way. 

With a grin in his eyes, 

Confidence in his stance, 

And sarcasm crowding

Behind his teeth. 

He jumps from heights,

With complete and total

Trust

That someone will catch him. 


	10. There is... a Wise Man

There is one. 

A foreigner. 

His words are honest and open,

And do not hide his emotions. 

He wears his failures

Like a cloak, and his years

Like a crown. 

Centuries upon centuries

He has walked this earth,

And yet people still confuse him. 

He keeps his silence, 

Think it's not his place to

Comment,

And wants to understand. 


	11. There is... a Brave Man

There is one.

A fighter.

He worries for everyone,

Even if he doesn't know them.

He is a leader,

A good one, who others want to follow.

He has memories old and new, 

And brings them together

Through his art.

He stands for what he thinks is 

Right, 

And tries to be brave. 


	12. There is... a Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I HAVE KUDOS THANK YOU  
> But seriously, I live in fear of being told that my writing sucks, but people like it!  
> Have another poem

There is one. 

A prisoner. 

He doesn't want to hurt anyone,

But somehow, it keeps happening.

He wants to be free, 

But is trapped in his own mind. 

He's a child. 

A maelstrom. 

And a monster

In part of his own nightmare. 

He rages and destroys and

Kills, 

But can still feel innocent

Wonder. 


	13. Storm

The winds blow around me

Rain blinds my sight

Lightning cracks through the sky

And yet,

I am untouched. 

I am untouched 

By the fury of 

Someone.

God?

Nature?

Or Earth herself?

The day was here a minute ago.

But now it is night. 

It might as well be

With the iron clouds

The wind like a spirit of vengeance

And the thunder like the roaring

Of a hundred lions. 

I am in the old tree.

My grandfather's tree. 

With the wide, sweeping branches

That hold all my memories. 

Far from standing against the storm

It sways with it.

Branches bending with the wind

Leaves rushing as loud as the thunder.

They make a song

And I cannot help but join in.

I climb higher

Until my face is upturned to the rain.

I scream vengeance

And anger

And terrible

Sorrowful

Beauty

Along with the trees

And the thunder

And the sky. 

The storm roars back

And I laugh

With wild delight.

I leap from my grandfather's tree

And land on my feet.

I begin to run

Fearing no one

Not even the Devil himself. 

For when has the Devil last walked

Amongst man?

Because now

Man is the king and spark and demon 

Of his own land.  

The wind races along with me

And I feel as if I could run on 

Forever

As if I barely touch the Earth. 

But

I must turn back

Though the Earth does not have a hold on me

Other things do.

The tree

My family

And the end of this wild storm.

 


	14. To Turn Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to me Happy Birthday to me
> 
> And happy birthday to Katniss Everdeen too

The dark snaps at my heels

In my own personal Hell.

They used to bite me,

Tear at me,

Howl painful words.

"He's dead!"

"No one knows!"

"No one is coming!"

But I saw him.

And Something snapped

In me. 

It came back.

I saw their lies.

I broke free.

And so now, 

I walk along this tunnel

The darkness now my friend

My ally. 

For it had been used 

Just as much as I.

The ones who howled at me

They whisper at my back

But no less deceitful

I glance back.

The darkness swirls around me.

Growling its fear

And anger.

"you've done our evil..."

"how do you think the world will react..."

"they'll hunt you..."

"cage you..."

The words curl around in my brain

Like the dark does at my heels.

But I don't kick the dark away.

I turn around fully. 

"Like you did."

I snarl, 

And they shrink back. 

I look forward,

And there is a light. 

I'm not dying. 

I know this. 

So I go to it. 

The darkness, though my friend,

Is at the end of its journey.

I bid it farewell,

And thank it

For helping me.

And I enter into 

The world.

And I will enter the darkness once again,

Embrace it like an old friend,

Because that's what it is. 

But I will never turn around

And go back to my own personal hell

And their howling words. 

And their biting teeth.

And their wounding lies. 


	15. Monsters and Men

I walk among Monsters,

Beasts.

They are called that

Because this is what they look like. 

Fierce.

Frightening. 

They chose that name for themselves.

Proud of what they are.

Fur and claws and fangs and wings and all. 

For why should they be 

Ashamed?

A name has no bite

If it is a fact. 

They walk among people

As I walk with them.

Monsters among men.

But who has the right to deem someone one of them?

They ask me, 

Seeing their word in books,

On the news.

We are good,

They say.

We hope we are, 

At least. 

So why do they call him

(They gesture to the TV

With a murderer on screen)

A monster?

We are not like him. 

They say,

And I can see them grow panicked. 

He doesn't even look like us,

He doesn't do the things we do 

We don't do the things he did

We don't know him

They say, eyes wide

With fear and sadness and disgust.

He is not one of us. 

One says firmly.

And the others nod in agreement,

Fur rustling,

Wings twitching,

Antenna bobbing. 

I have no answer for them.

I just hug one

As much as I can

For I am human.

And small to them.

But no less important

For my differences. 

I don't know,

I say. 

You are good. 

So why do they call him that?

They ask. 

Because people didn't know,

I said.

That you were here. 

That you were who you were.

The word monster 

Meant horrible things for centuries,

I say.

And people still use it.

But not with you in mind.

So still you must walk proudly. 

Be who you are. 

They nod once more

And I sigh

Happy that I have saved a group of kind hearts

From the shiny steel-plated and blood-bound 

Melancholy of some,

And the heavy feelings that come

With losing faith. 


	16. Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOLY MOTHER I HAVE A BOOKMARK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, my pronouns are she and her. This just works better with a male narrator.

I turn around,

And come face to face

With myself. 

My Hulk to my Banner.

My Hyde to my Jekyll.

But he is none of those. 

He lacks Hulk's rage,

He lacks Hyde's evil. 

But he is a part of me

That I never want anyone to see.

Every trait I present to the world,

Its contrast,

Another bar in his cage.

I look at him from outside the dark depths of my mind.

He stares back, 

Not angry,

Not bitter. 

Calculating. 

Analyzing. 

But never choosing. 

And then his eyes clear, 

And a knowing

And solemn

And a quietly triumphant look

Enters them.

He nods. 

"I understand."

"You do?"

I ask.

He smiles. 

"I do."

"I don't."

He raises an eyebrow.

"You'll figure it out," 

He says.

"You're me."

"Am I?"

He sighs. 

"Someday.

You will know who I am."

And I walk away from him.

Confused.

He left me with a question

That I know I will search the answer to

Until my dying day. 

If I can answer it?

Only he knows.


	17. Regret

Every man

Has a regret.

Some wear them

Like a crown,

Or a cape,

Trailing behind them.

They wear them proudly,

Silently declaring,

"Look at the litany of my sins,

At the sum of my failure.

I take away your possible weapons,

And make them my own."

And some hid them in a dark corner,

Watching,

Waiting,

In fear for someone to find them.

Which one are you?

Which one am I?

Is anyone really 

That clear-cut?

Or are we all just

Stumbling through the clouds of our

Regret?


	18. Smoke and Mirrors and Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing. Slightly.

He cracks around me,

Appearing and disappearing.

A game of shadows and mirrors.

He sneers at me,

Half-formed, made of smoke.

"Why do you defend them?

They who are doomed to perish?"

He asks.

I spin, snarl in my voice,

Roar in my head.

"We will make this world

As it was supposed to be."

I swing for him, 

And only shatter a mirror.

"Weed out the unworthy-"

"How many inoccents

Will die by your hand?"

I hiss.

I catch him by the neck,

Heart pounding. 

"My turn."

I say.

"How many will die by your hand?

Who are you to be 

Judge

Jury 

And executioner?

Did you think I will lay down and die?"

He spits and turns to smoke.

"Joins us,"

He says, and I growl

As no human should be able to.

He pauses, and I delight

In his fear.

"Or accept your fate,

And join the slaughter."

I see him again,

Back turned to me. 

I approach silently. 

I will end this game

Of shadows and mirrors

And empty threats.

My voice echoes in the room,

Impossible to pin.

"I've never been one 

To accept my fate."

And I lunge, 

Making us fall

From the room,

Through the sky, 

And back down to Earth. 

And I know

That I have won 

His own game. 

I have one last thought

Before we start fighting for the last time.

 

_I win._

_Asshole._

 

Because I am a human. 


	19. A Dream of Music (i hope it lasts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fully aware of the lowercase i in the title.  
> Also, I'm in the middle of writing new stuff for Look At Me And Remember.  
> Also also, I'm thinking of making this into a story.  
> Help, I have too many ideas.

My hands flutter over the strings,

Picking out a melody from strands of metal.

An odd feeling grows in my stomach,

A twisting, turning, independent,

Thing. 

The notes flow through my mind

Down into my arms,

Flee across my hands,

And float into the air. 

I am alone in the room,

Yet feel thousands watching me. 

They judge from the non-existent shadows,

And I grow angry. 

How dare they watch,

How dare they judge, 

When I have done nothing at all?

The notes come faster, 

Forced into the room quicker,

Against their will. 

My hands want to shake in anger,

Yet I pin them into steadiness,

Making them not falter. 

I stand up, pace the room. 

The strings against my fingertips seem to shudder to life, 

Once inanimate things,

Now allies to me. 

The notes have no mind of their own. 

But their vessel,

The strings,

Coaxes them to greater speeds.

They stream across the drafts,

The currents of the sea of air

That I am sailing in. 

I imagine them hitting my fears,

My enemies,

The shadows, 

_him,_

Riddling them with tiny bullet holes,

A spray of musical buckshot. 

The air perks up in interest, 

Moving my hair gently. 

The floor creaks, 

The room groaning into new life,

Guided by my footsteps. 

The music takes a new tune,

Notes sharpened into swords,

Chords forged into shields. 

The shadows that did and didn't exist

Shrink back and dissolve. 

For they were cowards in the face of the living wind,

The life of the old and abandoned building,

Long thought to be forgotten and dead. 

Invisible notes whirl around me, 

Whipped into a frenzy by the wind.

I laugh.

It is something that fits in, somehow,

With the world living around me,

The musical armor surrounding me.

I laugh, 

For the first time in a while. 

And I can pretend

That the rest of the world,

The world that I cannot coax into life,

The world that sits there, 

Dead, 

Killed by eons of grief, of evil,

Doesn't exist.

And that I don't have to go back to it. 

To _his_ sharp smiles,

To _his_ easy lies,

To my own foolishness. 

I can just stay here, 

In this living world,

With the wind blowing away the tears,

The ancient bones of the building

Shielding me from harm,

My music breathing life into everything. 

It's a nice dream. 

I hope it lasts. 


	20. Earth. It's For Humans.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning part is vaguely influenced by a conversation in the comics with The Black Order. One of its members is Ebony Maw, who you might remember as the Squidward guy from Infinity War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing. Do I need to up the rating? Hmmmmmmmmm...

Earth?

Madness.

There, even the best plans burn.

There, dawn always breaks.

Earth.

The last stop for the foolish.

And desperate.

And lost.

But what if you were always there?

And you had always survived?

What does that make you?

The king of fools?

The one with a faint ray of hope?

The one with a map?

No.

It means that you are human.

See, the thing with humans is that we self-destruct.

We cannot, for the life of us, get along.

We disagree on the tiniest things, mostly because we can.

But the other thing about humans is that we're stubborn as shit.

We hate change.

Any form of change.

So when another person decides to do something insanely stupid,

Like blow some people up,

We push back. 

Hard.

We plant our feet and say

Quite clearly,

Back the hell off.

We're polite that way.

We also say,

The hell is wrong with that idiot?

And

Wow. Sometimes people are too stupid to live. 

So yeah. 

Humans fight.

We argue.

We have disagreeing made into an art form.

And sometimes,

We stumble before we plant out feet.

But we can also lift our chins

And spit in the eye of destiny

Because it's

Our

Damn

Lives

And we will live them in our own way,

Thank you very much.

Ain't free will a gift?


	21. School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How corruption works its way into school, year after year, without fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They drowned the rat metaphorically, okay? 
> 
> The school is a mob. 
> 
> Take that how you will. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Well, friends, it's that time again,

The sweet haze of summer is at its end.

A golden glow far ahead, 

The balm of spirits that feel like lead.

But more than that, it's the same old song,

Fight through crowds to see where you belong,

Walking the halls to the same old class,

Self-esteem that feels like glass.

Do what you can so you survive,

The ones who cheat are the ones who thrive.

 

Who can give me the blame?

School is one cutthroat game.

 

So you run across the whole building

Praying, bell, please don't ring.

Do the homework 

Study too, 

The things we need to do.

 

A week in now, we're doing alright,

The weekend now is our saving light. 

Teachers learning all our names,

Finding paths through the maze.

Locker codes learned by heart, 

You know the play, you can do your part. 

But, wait, look, here's a test, 

"It's alright, just do your best,"

Where are the notes, I need a pen,

I think we just walked into a lion's den.

 

Someone, please, come to our aid, 

We need to make this grade.

 

So scramble for the facts you knew, 

Hoping your memories won't fall through,

Scribble down answers,

Show work too,

We don't know how we'll do!

 

The grades come back, you didn't fail,

But your high grades might turn tail.

Second marking period comes around,

Midterms are on the new playing ground.

Study packets don't do much, 

Teachers seem to push their luck. 

We're more desperate now to keep our grade, 

Smart kids see there's money to be made.

Pick your poison, cheat or buy, 

Our free time's saying goodbye.

 

Teachers can't hold up their deal, 

The black market is becoming real. 

 

So keep some secrets, take your time, 

Don't let it slip that you crossed the line,

Cheating is easy, 

Dangerous too, 

But we know what to do.

 

Listen for conversations about raids, 

Spread the word so the market's safe.

Cheat, 

Lie, 

Cross the line, 

Do it so you can thrive.

 

It’s the end of the year, 

Finals are here, 

The Market’s dying down.  

Teachers knew, so there was a rat,

The leaders really didn’t like that,

So the rat they tried to drown.

The rubble of the war against cheating

Our secrets have taken quite a beating. 

But still, we stood in victory,

A great note in our silent history. 

 

Don’t be fooled by our innocent smiles,

Give up an inch and we’ll run a mile.

 

Our school year is done at last, 

An evil thing left in the past, 

Starting truthful, 

Ending corrupt,

To that, we’ll lift our glass!  

 

Some people may call it cheating.

This is what we call surviving. 

Some people may call it a lie. 

This is how we thrive. 

 

This is how

We

 

Thrive. 


	22. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um... So. I was watching Gotham, which is now my new favorite TV show, and while I'm only on season one, I really like it. 
> 
> So this is vaguely Batman-influenced. But it's not Batman. I swear, I just have no idea what I'm doing anymore just read this y'all know it's going to be bad anyway bye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You readers are wonderful the increasing view count makes my day.

He stands there,

Wind whipping his long coat.

Maybe it would be less windy,

Less cold,

On the ground,

But there's a reason

As to why he's standing 

On the roof

Of the tallest building

In the city.

He's not going to jump. 

He's seen far too many

Boys

Girls

Men

Women

Falling,

          Falling,

                    Falling,

Down

For the notion to be attractive to him. 

He's seen them,

In his mind at night,

When he lays next to his wife,

Trying to fall asleep. 

She has no nightmares. 

He's lucky if he goes a week without waking her up 

When he screams. 

He sees their hair splaying out like a halo,

Arms outstretched, 

Mouth open,

Gasping the last puff 

Of carbon dioxide

From their lungs,

Before their halo 

Is joined by wings made from blood,

Spreading out on the ground. 

He shakes himself 

From thoughts of bloody wings

And broken halos

To return back to the roof

Of the tallest building

In the city.

He's waiting for someone. 

Him. 

He ought to arrest him, 

He's sure of it. 

He just...

Never does. 

He claims that he escapes,

To his colleagues,

To his superiors,

To his wife.

It's a lie. 

He's always lying. 

May God forgive him,

But he has no idea what to do at this point. 

He's struggling through a sea

Of moral qualms, 

And there is no lifeboat 

In sight. 

He thinks about the man he is waiting for. 

He has profiled him so many times

In his mind. 

Tall,

Definitely male,

Judging by the voice 

And the eyes.

(The eyes that hold eons of anger

And millennia of darkness)

He could easily find out who the man is,

He knows. 

He doesn't. 

He thinks that he just shrugged

And said,

Whatever. I'm done with this. 

You do you. 

But this man, 

This mystery man, 

The one made from shadows,

The one who's just a silhouette. 

He one saw his eyes,

Once. 

He stayed away from the rooftop

For a week

After seeing his eyes. 

They scared him, 

He's not afraid to admit. 

But crime somehow surged, 

And then he was half-convinced 

That the man controlled the crime. 

When he was forced back up onto that rooftop, 

By his colleagues,

His superiors, 

And his guilty conscience,

He confronted him with his evidence. 

The man was staying as far away from him as possible. 

He got the feeling that the man 

Had stayed away from the rooftop as well. 

The man didn't laugh. 

But he had made a strange noise

That was quickly silenced

Before he disappeared.

He later thought that it sounded

A little like a small animal

Being stepped on. 

He laughed so hard,

He cried,

And his wife had asked him what was wrong. 

But there is something wrong now,

There are no funny noises,

No ridiculous accusations. 

Something is wrong with his city,

And this city is both his

And the man who is made out of shadows

And anger. 

A small noise catches his attention.

He turns around, 

And there the man is. 

Draped in shadow, 

And blurred by darkness. 

Yet he is a corona of light,

A blazing,

Fiery,

Raging star. 

He is almost invisible

To his eyes,

A muted shape.

A slight wavering of the infinite darkness,

On this damned rooftop. 

And yet,

He can see him, 

Plain as day.

The shadowed man speaks,

And there is something in his voice,

That he has never quite been able

To understand before.

Except on days

When he has seen

The broken halos 

And bloody wings 

Of people

Of children, they're _children_ ,

Pitching themselves away from _life,_ from  _light_

And into the darkness,

He realizes.

The shadowed man

Finishes,

And he looks at him. 

He understands what was in his voice. 

A deep sadness, 

As infinite as the darkness

That is on this rooftop. 

Because this man,

This man made of 

Shadows

Anger

And light,

Has seen even more of this darkness

Than him. 

He doesn't know quite what to make of that. 

You've seen them,

He says to the man,

Without thinking. 

You've seen them, 

Falling,

Haven't you.

It's not a question,

But a fact. 

The shadowed man doesn't move. 

Then he speaks,

And his voice is pain

Wrapped in anger,

Wrapped in sadness,

And smothered with fake indifference. 

Yes. 

He says,

I have. 

And I have seen many more

That did not fall. 

He is shocked

That the man in shadow answered,

Rather than fleeing,

As he has done before. 

They go to you,

Don't they?

He askes,

And man, does he feel stupid right now. 

He looks down. 

Bold of you to assume

That anyone goes to me,

The man in shadow says. 

He looks back up, 

But the man in shadow is gone,

And leaving him with more questions

Than answers.


	23. Cities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cities are many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhh I am ill.
> 
> Edit: *sprays Typos-B-Gone* Take that, suckers!

People say that cities

Are dark. 

Dangerous. 

Dirty. 

They'd be right,

Of course. 

Slums,

Full of the poor people

Who can just barely

Get by. 

Smokestacks,

Belching out noxious black fumes,

Out into the sky,

Maybe drifting over a bay

Too polluted to even dip a toe in

Without contracting a disease. 

Alleyways, 

Long having the stereotype

Of danger,

With the hissing of feral alley cats

In our minds,

Along with

Two ringing gunshots

That signal the birth of a hero,

And a fight,

With one man

Using a trashcan as a shield,

Before he gets his real one.

They all mean 

Danger

To us. 

And cities have hundreds of them. 

Cities can be crowded,

Crime-ridden,

Vile. 

Some say that you can't 

See the stars,

That the only ones you can find

Are symbols on the ground,

Or on a television screen. 

Some say that you can never hear

Birds sing,

Or any other sound of nature

In the bustling chaos

That never seems to shut off. 

They'd be right. 

Some say that 

City-dwellers are too busy,

Always in a rush,

Never having patience. 

They'd be right.  

Some say that 

Cities are festering wounds,

Bleeding smog,

Infected by corruption,

And choking on death. 

Not many people say this,

But they're a little bit right.

Many people

Say many things

About cities. 

And many people

Who say those things,

Do not live in those cities. 

Cities are dark, 

Dangerous,

And dirty. 

But as there is always 

Two sides to a coin,

There are always two sides

To an opinion. 

Cities can be dark (light),

Cities can be dangerous (secure),

Cities can be dirty (clear).

Skyscrapers,

Giants,

Made of glass and steel,

Peering out into the sky,

Touching the clouds. 

They are lit up at night,

Bright blocks of color,

Chasing away shadows,

Laughing at the dark. 

Telling it,

I am more

Than you. 

The people

Who live in cities,

They learn where they are. 

They know when to step in,

Whether it be clinging to a man

On the edge of a bridge,

Or pushing at a subway train,

A behemoth of silver metal,

To free a single woman,

And succeeding. 

Cities have the wind, 

Howling through the streets,

Stealing newspapers,

And ruffling hair. 

Cities have graffiti,

Bright colors slung onto walls.

Words looped with pictures,

Made by children

With enough money

To buy a can of spray paint. 

One day, 

A bland and abandoned trainyard.

An eyesore.

The next,

A line of canvases, 

Covered with wild designs. 

The "stars"

That people can see

In cities,

Are not the real stars. 

The real stars, 

You can see. 

Not in the sky,

But lean out of a high window

At night,

And breath in the night air,

Sure, smell the smoke and the despair,

But also smell the scents

Of home-made food,

Made in the vendors that line

The streets. 

Smell the fresh scent

Of the winds

Playing through the buildings. 

Hear the wail of sirens,

But also hear the music 

Of the radios that people have

Sitting in windows,

Of the shouts and screaming laughter

Of people who are out with friends. 

Look out into the sky and know

That while the distant stars aren't visible,

The burning coronas of light 

Which are found

In the inky depths of space,

That the bright lights of the city,

The golden glow of streetlamps,

The fiery red of car brakes,

And the expansive rainbow

That are the skyscrapers,

Those,

They are the real stars in the city. 

They are what you can wish upon,

For after all, 

They are the result of 

Someone's dream.

The natural sounds

That you cannot hear?

They are the blare of car horns,

Of helicopter blades

Slicing through the sky.

They make up the city's lullaby,

A comforting mix of urban noises,

Letting people know that 

Nothing is amiss. 

People who live in the city 

Are in a rush,

The streets filled with taxis,

Horns blaring more often than not. 

The sidewalks always full of people,

But the great thing about it is,

You always know where you're going. 

There are no people walking on the wrong side,

Slowing everyone down.

It's a bustling hive,

Filled with people who have a purpose. 

You don't have to know everyone,

But you'll know many. 

Your neighbors,

The bus drivers, 

Your favorite cabby. 

In turn, 

They'll know you, 

And many more people besides. 

It's all one web.

I don't think that cities are wounds.

I think that

They are like gardens,

Left alone for too long,

And have now grown, 

Sprawling,

Connecting with others

Through highways 

That are like vines.

They are a beautiful thing,

And they should not be pruned back

For the sake of appearances. 

They are beyond HOAs. 

If they are called an eyesore, 

It is just one more hurtful word

Swallowed up

In the great movement of humanity. 

They cannot be pruned back, 

For the inhabitants

Will strike back, 

Having seen the new regime

Thousands of times before,

And have not liked it. 

They will strike, 

Snarling like a dog 

With threatened territory,

Hissing like the alleycats 

That prowl the dark corners.

People in the city have seen many things,

Yet they do not leave. 

This is because,

At least I think,

That they know that the city is theirs,

And theirs alone. 

They are the ones who walk the sidewalks,

Who flip the switches

To turn on the defiant neon.

They remain on the ground,

And yet, 

One knows that,

Somehow,

They stand on the rooftops

And shout,

Roar,

Scream, 

 _This place is ours_  

And they know. 

Cities are the great blend

Of culture and crime,

Of technology and tradition. 

They are low huts,

And soaring towers. 

No one can define them,

For they aren't one single object.

Cities are many things,

And one couldn't even begin to list them all. 

Yet in someone's head, 

There is a clear picture,

A single description 

Of what they are. 

Maybe one day, 

They'll be able to put it into words. 

But for now,

We must be content

That cities

Are what they are. 

Indefinable. 


	24. Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflection on what we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good God the amount of kudos on this ily guys so much  
> Edit: Typos oh no BEGONE

Let's talk about humanity. 

Let us put aside

Our differences

And talk objectively 

About our own race. 

Seems difficult,

Right?

Well, you are. 

Humans cannot talk objectively, 

Because as a whole, 

We aren't. 

We will always have an opinion on something, 

From another person,

To a brand of toothpaste. 

We're pretty full of ourselves, too. 

We walk around,

Thinking we're the most advanced. 

We know we aren't at the top of the food chain. 

We're humble in that aspect. 

Some people say that it's 

Only humans

Who kill other humans

Knowingly 

And willingly. 

It's only humans

Who go to war 

With their own kind. 

They might be right,

And they might be wrong. 

I don't know. 

There are far older

And wiser

People than I

Who have discussed it for long hours,

Candlelight burning at midnight

As they try to understand 

Seemingly simple questions, 

Like,

Who are we?

Why are we here?

What's out there?

That last one,

I think, 

Is the most asked. 

Humans,

I think we can all agree,

Are curious beings.

We named a rover after that, 

And then taught it to sing

Happy Birthday

To itself

On a planet many miles away. 

We made a cake for it too,

Back on Earth. 

Why?

The better question is,

Why not?

We look out into the depths of space,

And think,

I want to know. 

It's why we're scared of the dark. 

(And let's be honest,

For some,

That fear never goes away)

We can't see,

So we can't know. 

The unknown is both familiar

And unfamiliar. 

Familiar, because we look for it,

And,

More often than not,

We find it. 

Unfamiliar,

Because we've never seen it before,

Because as soon as we find it,

It's no longer unknown. 

The unfamiliar is dangerous to us,

A base instinct long evolved into us,

From when we were carrying around clubs. 

Deadly things lurk in dark holes,

From spiders to snakes. 

Of course, 

There's nothing in our closets,

But we don't know that,

Now do we?

So we cover up our fear

With science and research,

Shining light into the dark cracks

Of the Earth,

Banishing the unknown 

With impassive text in books.

Textbooks, bland pages of information

That we give to every generation

Of students. 

Pushing facts into their heads, 

So they don't know about the unknown.

And still, 

_Still,_

Children fear the dark closet, 

Under the bed. 

Because they are born with that base instinct,

Fear the unknown. 

But it isn't only that. 

They are born with the burning curiosity

That all humans still share.

It is shown in how 

A child questions a parent. 

"Why do I have to?"

The answer, more often than not,

Is infuriatingly not helpful. 

"Because I said so."

Well, then why did you decide so?

But after that point,

Any noise out of you 

Is backtalk. 

Humans don't like things to be arbitrary. 

There needs to be a reason. 

We can't just be a fluke. 

What's the point if we are?

But while humans need a reason in our world,

Sometimes, 

We don't need anything. 

We can do things,

Simply for the sake of doing them. 

Humans are the most random and yet most orderly creatures

I know of. 

We have set structures, 

Governments,

Families,

Rules. 

And yet, 

We once floated a rubber duck the size of a house

Down a river. 

We dyed another river green,

For the sake of a holiday. 

We have National Put a Pillow on Top of Your Refridgerator Day. 

_Why?_

It's because we can. 

We can be our own little contained tornado,

And then collectively be a millpond. 

We can change in the flip of a switch, 

And somehow always stay the same. 

So what are we?

We are humanity. 

We could be alone in our universe,

The only speck of life in an otherwise dead

And infinitely-expanding universe.

Or we could just be some backwater planet

Who's so behind

It's not worth taking over.

But come what may, 

We'll keep chugging along,

Until we cause our own destruction,

Or our own Sun

Reaches the end of its life. 

The future should scare us.

After all,

It's the great unknown. 

But because we cannot control the passing of time,

It's always moving forwards.

We're meeting it, 

And every passing second

Is one less unknown. 

We've already imagined the worst,

And discarded it as likely to happen.

We didn't bother looking at the best. 

We always knew

That it was never going to happen anyway. 

We have the past to guide us,

And we plunge forward, 

Not knowing if we'll crash and burn,

And not particularly worried

If we already are.

We'll rise one day,

Ashes and cinders and flames licking at us,

Trailing smoke.

But we'll be rising,

And while we won't be like a phoenix,

Eternally living through fire and flame,

We'll be trying our damndest to. 

Will we succeed?

I have no idea.

Am I scared about that?

No,

Because I know that there are billions more

Who have more legacies tied to them.

So maybe as a whole,

We will endure.


	25. Holy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please don't be angry at me. This is just my beliefs, and if you believe in anything different, at least we'll probably agree on the first half of the Bible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new installment of Look At Me And Remember is coming soon! *winks*  
> Also, this gets really frequent updates compared to other stories. And to think, I hated free-verse poetry in middle school. Now, I realize that rhyming is hella hard.
> 
> Also also, I'm probably going to hell for this. Please don't smite me God.

I've seen them before. 

With plain robes on,

The only decoration

The lovingly embroidered cloth

That is draped around their shoulders. 

Every Saturday,

(It used to be Sunday, 

But we changed it. 

I don't know why)

We go to the place where they are. 

Church. 

_La iglesia._

_L'église._

I am a Catholic, 

And a Christian.

I can't remember what makes

Who what. 

But anyway. 

I see them every week. 

The priests. 

Singing

Or chanting

Or just reading

Hymns and prayers to God. 

I think of Him

A bit like the sun.

The same sun that gave me 

A sunburn last week, 

Was the same sun

That blazed down upon 

The Egyptian slaves as they built the Pyramids

At Giza. 

It's almost like it's abstract to me. 

I know the sun is a burning star billions of miles away,

But it's also just...

There. 

In the sky. 

As per usual. 

It rises and sets, 

And I don't bat an eye.

But to hear it described 

In the Planetarium,

A yearly school trip?

A great, huge, burning ball of gas

That will one day explode

In a supernova,

A huge conflagration of particles

That scatters matter in every direction. 

Woah. 

That's God. 

The God that I pray to 

When I haven't studied for a test. 

The God that I pray to

When my grandfather died.

He's there. 

In Heaven. 

I believe in Him, 

And I don't bat an eye. 

But to hear Him described in the Bible?

(And you might ask,

Why read the Bible?

It's because the Book of Leviticus

Sets some pretty wild rules.)

He's the God that lead Moses and Hebrews

Out of Egypt,

As a pillar of fire at night, 

And a column of clouds during the day. 

He's the God

Who killed all the firstborn sons

Of the people of Egypt. 

He's the God

Who sent down His only Son,

Jesus Christ,

And we killed Him. 

That's the same God. 

It's incredible to me.

When I think of church,

I think of incense burning, 

Rays of light

Filtered through stained glass. 

Of the burned glory of 

Notre Dame,

And the relics that some very brave men saved

Before they were turned to ashes. 

And if I only think of those things,

I can admire God. 

I can admire our belief. 

But I also think of other things. 

I think of God telling Abraham

To kill his only son, Isacc,

As a test of his loyalty. 

And isn't that the worst kind of foreshadowing?

I think of the Holocaust, 

The Jews who did nothing wrong

But believe in the same God 

That I do. 

And I think,

Where was He then?

His holiness is not a sham,

The altar isn't just gold leaf over wood. 

They say He works in mysterious ways, 

But I think He works just as His title does. 

God the Father. 

He let us make our mistake with the Holocaust. 

It's evident, even now. 

A century later, give or take,

And we are still teaching our children about it. 

"Don't make our mistakes,"

They are silently saying. 

And as we learn,

We are giving a silent reply. 

A silent promise. 

"We won't."

So I can still admire the beauty

Of the stained glass windows,

The joyful hymns,

And the tragedy of the Crucifixion.

Because although I do not know how God works,

I know enough

For my religion 

To still be 

Holy. 


	26. Blaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire and the human spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy almost Halloween and happy Mischief Night! Remember to be safe, wherever you are!

I am not

What you think I am. 

I am not

Contained,

However many chains 

And locks

And weights

You put on me. 

I may be chained,

Wrapped in iron,

Clad in padlocks,

But I am not captive. 

I am not contained. 

I am the wind,

I am the clouds,

I am free. 

Actually, 

I am nothing so pure as that. 

I am smoke,

And I am fire. 

I do not have red flowing through me.

I have the burning, crackling heat in my veins.

I am angry,

I am impartial. 

I am not 

Judge or jury. 

But I can be an executioner. 

Look upon the beauty

Of a flame,

And maybe you will see 

The terrible elegance of it. 

The humming energy

Of wood being changed to charcoal,

Of paper being turned to ash. 

See the simple power

That fire has.

Fire is not a tool. 

It is not a weapon. 

It is a power unto itself.

Fire does not die,

It simply recedes,

Waiting,

Waiting,

For another spark to fly.

I am not a tool. 

I am not a weapon.

But I am also not a power. 

I am like fire, yes,

But I am also the smoke,

Flying into eyes,

Blinding sight.

I am the scent of ash drifting on the wind. 

I am the remnants of something that was greater. 

I trailed from Lucifer's wings themselves

When he fell.  

I am curling from your cigarette,

The one you promised yourself would be your last. 

(Sometimes it is.

Other times, it isn't. 

But most times,

It's one of the last ten.)

I am like smoke,

And I am like fire. 

I am not contained. 

A mortal body can be checked, 

But a spirit,

My spirit,

The that is withing anyone,

If they look deep enough?

(But most don't,

Because they're afraid

That they might only find

Monsters hiding in the darkness,

And not that spark of light.)

That. 

That can not be chained. 

The human spirit is a song thrown into the sky,

It is sparks kicked up by a blazing bonfire,

It is smoke from a burning rainforest,

From a soon-to-be-kicked vice,

From the hidden trails of fireworks

That cast streaks of color into the sky. 

The human spirit is something 

That cannot be contained. 

It is bitterness

And warmth,

And creation,

And destruction. 

We have singed our world,

And we will continue to burn.

We will not die.

We will simply wait

For that spark to fly,

For that match to drop,

Once more. 

And we

Will

_blaze_


	27. Magpie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sad thing, a magpie is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration struck. Enjoy!

Magpie, Magpie,

Singing in the night,

Tell me, tell me,

Why won't you fly?

You stay in your nest

Of silvery things,

Two brass coins

And a diamond ring.

Four lost keys

And three broken locks,

One golden bracelet

From a jewelry box.

Magpie, magpie, 

Why do you steal?

Tell me, tell me, 

How does it feel?

You hide away in

Your cluttered nest,

With one bright pin 

From one's Sunday best.

Don't you know that

The sun's warming light

Makes your treasures

Shine a little more bright?

Magpie, magpie, 

Why do you sing?

Don't you know that

You've pinned your wings?

Magpie, magpie, 

Singing in the night.

Trapped in a cage

Of your own delight. 

Magpie, magpie,

When will you see?

The treasure you're

Looking for is only me. 


End file.
